Pride, A Dance of Flames

The door opened, admitting Ellora, and he gestured to her to sit back. Absentmindedly, he watched her prowl over to the sofa, sitting with grace and economy in her movements. Running a hand through his hair, he listened to his client.

I’m looking for an ancient religious artifact originating in Neolithic times. Athens should be your first stop.

There was an odd note, something he couldn’t put his finger on. Greece. He hadn’t been there before. He glanced at Ellora who looked as though she were listening with every fiber of her being.

No problem. What is it?

A chalice, possibly Roman Catholic. It needs to be returned to its rightful owner. You know the budget.

No budget. Spend what is needed.

Understood. What information can you give me? He nodded at Ellora and watched as she pulled an iPad from her bag.

"It is made of metal and has engravings of three spirals and eagles on the outside with a cross in the center of the bowl.

He knew better than to ask for any images, knowing Constantin didn’t put anything on paper. All business was conducted over the phone, and then only very briefly.

Do you know when it was last seen?

No. You know all I know. Keep in touch.

A click preceded the dial tone.

Pride, A Dance of Flames

by

Cait O’Sullivan

A Dance of Flames, Book 1

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Pride, A Dance of Flames

COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Cait O'Sullivan

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2022

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3627-5

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3628-2

A Dance of Flames, Book 1

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

As ever, big thanks to my wonderful editor, Lill Farrell. I do love working with you.

To my wonderful husband—thank you for the patience and the time you spent with Ellora and Lee making sure they worked together well. Having you read it whilst I was beside you was a bit nerve-wracking but seeing you invest in the story and enjoy it made me so glad.

And to Julia Astapova—you superstar friend. Thank you so very much for all the time and effort you spent searching for mistakes and inconsistencies, for the advice and the sounding board you provided—time after time. My faith in Lee and Ellora has increased manifold because of your contributions.

Finally to the wonderful and ever-inspiring way of life that is shamanism. My life is all the more richer and unexpected because of its underlying presence and support. I hope I’ve reflected clearly and correctly some principles and practices, and if not, I apologize sincerely.

Chapter One

Ellora jerked upright and banged her head on the bonnet of her racing green MG. Cursing loudly, she wiped her oil-stained hands on the rag she kept on the side before rubbing the tender part of her crown.

Only then did she see fit to turn to the man who had startled her. Tall and imposing, the amused light in his eyes only irritated her further.

Yes, and you are? She turned the rag over and over in her hands.

Lee North.

Vague recollections rang of seeing his name somewhere. She rubbed her forehead exasperatedly. Nope, nothing there. He was returning her gaze with an air of expectation. Holy hell. What had she forgotten?

You caught me unawares. Ellora Radley. Reluctant to shake his hand, she shoved hers deep into the pockets of her navy overalls, keeping them hidden as she blindly tried to get the grease out from under her nails.

A gleam of frustration crossed his glance, and he stretched an arm to expose his Breitling watch.

My assistant made an appointment with you for this morning. I understand there has been a miscommunication somewhere, but I would nonetheless appreciate you fulfilling our meeting. Is that possible?

Clearly. Um… She racked her brain, finding nothing whatsoever of use in there. No excuses or reasons not to give him some time. Besides, of course, for the voice that screamed danger.

I don’t invite just anyone into my home, though.

Eyes sharpening, he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out his wallet. Opening and quickly flicking through it, he maneuvered a couple of cards out and handed them over. A driver’s license confirmed that this rather delicious-looking man was indeed Lee North. The other card was his business card, citing his profession as antiquarian. She yawned inwardly. North Antiquaries though. Wasn’t that…?

He cleared his throat. Your assistant has my details and can corroborate who I am. Call her. Quickly pulling out his smart phone, he clicked on something and showed her the screen as the phone connected through to Ruthie.

No that’s fine, I believe you. She had abandoned all hope that her brain mist would clear. No such luck. Just give me a moment. My car broke down unexpectedly and I had to just…um, fix it. Unhelpful. It was abundantly clear the old, battered MG hadn’t gone anywhere recently—she was just in the process of replacing the engine.

Freeing the support bar, she lowered the bonnet, wincing as it slid into place with a screech. With a bit of luck, he knew nothing about cars and engines, but after catching the slightest of raised eyebrows, she somehow doubted Lady Luck was keeping her company today.

Please, come inside. She gestured to her bungalow perched at the top of her driveway. Politely he stood back, and she marched over to her glossy red front door, thinking furiously as she did. Surely he was a client, but she never messed up her appointments, nor did she ever have clients at home. What had happened? Following an incident where her phone had fallen from her pocket and into the guts of the car, taking forever to free it, she always left it inside the house—valuing the time free from its demands. Now, however, she could do with it. Swinging the door open, she stood back and allowed him to enter her house.

After you, please. He gestured inside at the same time as standing back, something of which she was glad. His presence—a high energy—reached to her, something she did not want to get caught up in it. An image of a hurtling comet came to her, and she brutally shoved it aside.

She nodded in Mr. North’s direction and stepped into her own home, leading the way to the small office at the back of the kitchen. On the way through, she switched the coffee machine on, grabbing her glowing mobile phone. She showed him down the two steps into the back office.

Would you like a coffee, please? Please? If she could use some time away from his disturbing presence, there was no need to, like, beg him.

Lovely, please. Black, no sugar.

Was he laughing? A quick glance neither confirmed nor denied her suspicions as a blank gaze was rapidly smoothed into place. But his irritation at her not being prepared seemed to have fled as he settled into the easy armchair she kept in front of her basic wooden desk, eyeing up her small office with its no frills. Nothing graced either the walls or the desk to indicate a life of any kind.

Scattered around were old car magazines, and these not artfully, for the time she spent here was either checking out the latest parts for her beloved cars or working. And as researching wasn’t exactly the glossiest of careers, there weren’t many eye-grabbing documents lying around. The only nod to a life was the tattered old wood scene she had since she was a child, nailed up haphazardly on the wall beside the door to the kitchen.

She backed out, muttering something about coffee and escaped, pressing her fingers to her frontal lobe. First, clothes—get out of the overalls. She fled to her bedroom, discarding overalls as she went. Moving as fast as her mind was whirling, she quickly threw on some clothes and raced back down.

Back in the kitchen, she whipped out her phone, cursing inaudibly as she saw four missed calls from her office, complete with message-left icons glowing. Deep joy. Yesterday, she had booked Thursday off in order to work on the MG, as she had finished one high-pressure job and needed an escape. Scrubbing her fingers through her ponytailed hair, she gently gave her scalp a massage whilst bracing herself to listen to the increasingly panicked tones of her PA, Ruthie.

Your 9 a.m. has arrived, Ellora. Ellora, where are you? Ellora, I’ve messed up. My Wi-Fi was down this morning, so I took a booking for you, only realizing too late that you weren’t in. But please call me—I don’t know what to do. In lowered tones, There’s a man here adamant to see you and he’s not taking no for an answer. And I don’t know but he’s a bit, ooh, disturbing. Call me.

These three messages came in hot and quick on each other’s heels, but there was a four-minute delay until the next, with Ruthie’s voice nearly breaking on the phone. Ellora, he’s got your address—I had to leave my desk. When I got back, he wasn’t around, but my phone with your number and contact details on the screen was still alight. I’m sorry and call me. As soon as you get this. Otherwise, I’ll send security over.

Disconnecting, she stood by the counter, tapping her lip with the phone. This man was certainly used to taking what he wanted. A low throat clearing alerted her to the fact he was now lounging in the doorway. Taking a deep breath, she swung to face him, crooking one arm on her hip.

Excuse me, but who are you?

Do you not know? His gaze looked nothing but amused as he returned her stare.

No, I bloody well don’t. Lee North or something. Sometimes she took refuge in her English accent inherited from her London Mum, and articulated the words with a clear, precise, cut-glass accent. Her dad used to also tease her mum sometimes, trying to copy her words, but his tongue couldn’t quite get the words out without sounding woolly. Without fail, her mother would laugh, and her father often used it when treading on dangerous territory. Her heart panged.

He smiled crookedly, but it wasn’t enough to mask the determination in his gaze.

I run North Antiquaries. I had set this day aside for appointing myself a new researcher, and this I intend to do. You are the fifth person I’ll have seen. I made an appointment this morning, and I admit, someone must have made a mistake, but that’s not my problem. He gestured in a way that indicated as are you.

"You thought you could just purloin my address from my PA and rock on over here?"

He raised an eyebrow and a wry smile pulled at his lips. I guess you could call it purloin, Ms. Radley.

Damned if this man was going to laugh at her. She held his gaze. Is this the way you normally do business?

He looked down at the ground briefly and smiled wryly. No, I normally don’t purloin addresses from unsuspecting PAs, although you might think about re-hiring. I apologize.

The eyes that met hers now were clear. She nodded, unthinkingly.

Deep breaths, girl. Don’t be getting all rattled.

I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time. I’m not looking for a new job.

He straightened and all amusement fled his gaze.

Would you hear me out? Maybe that coffee might help. Did that quirk of his lips suggest he was flirting?

She turned back to the coffee machine, pressing buttons rather blindly and welcoming the answering hum. Deep breaths. Taking her favorite mugs out, she filled them before handing one to him.

Let’s go into the office. It gave her a degree of professionalism, and she needed something with which to cloak herself.

She settled in her chair, propping her forearms on the desk, coffee cupped. After a pause, he leaned against the bookshelf on the right wall to her desk.

Being an antiquarian, I require a researcher for my services. He held up his coffee cup and gave a brief nod to her before taking a sip.

To the point.

Antiquarian, aren’t you supposed to be all, oh I don’t know, dusty? Shouldn’t you be wearing a tweed jacket with leather elbows and have incorrigible curls?

She should be quiet—she really should. But this was a problem of hers, allowing words out before any kind of brain censorship took place. Sometimes she gabbled when she was nervous, and looking at the man lounging in her increasingly small office was making her nervous. Very nervous. Hot on its heels came annoyance.

Dusty and a tweed jacket, she could handle. Heck, curls even she could put up with. But not this tigerlike man, watching her with eyes that could only be described as whiskey colored. She tried not to trace the shape of his cheekbones and firmly held his gaze, hoping she wasn’t looking like a mad woman, staring at him.

Nope, if she were on a show trying to guess what he did, such a dusty profession would not enter her head. A model maybe, for designer watches, staring moodily at the camera…

He waited, watching as she slowly heated as the range of emotions flooded her with adrenaline. She blew a stray lock of hair back from her face in the hope a long low breath might calm her. Time to regroup.

An antiquarian, he would be looking for someone to track down artifacts. Easy. But did she want a new job? Hers was fine as it was. Working in the large world-renowned museum in the city had been a great job when she started three years ago. Had it become slightly boring now? What matter if it had? She didn’t crave excitement—quite the opposite in fact. Routine—the key to a peaceful life.

Or was it? Did routine kill any kind of peace because there was no room for anything new, boundless, exciting? Could peace be felt if nothing different or new happened, forcing a change of thought and a reassessment? Does peace mutate to boredom?

Don’t judge a book by the cover—perhaps I am all dusty and just forgot to don my tweed today.

He was rewarded with a small smile.

Lee allowed his gaze to wander over the small study. Thin-paneled plywood lined the walls, a crooked wooden landscape placed behind a well-worn chair, and beyond that, nothing to suggest personality. Although, the well-thumbed magazines, Hemming Classic Car, made a refreshing change from the glossies. Carefully expressionless, the office spoke volumes. The twenty-seven-inch monitor on the corner of the desk was blank, as was the legal pad neatly situated in the center, with a fountain pen—capped of course—by the side. A round coaster completed the non-inspiring look.

But the woman herself, now that was a different matter. Long, black hair was scooped back into a messy ponytail. Her three-quarter-length sleeved polo top clung to her curves, emphasizing her neat figure whilst her soft jersey, high-waist, flared trousers made the casual look something more indefinable.

He liked her. And he wanted her to like him—something rather foreign to him. From what he had gathered about Ellora Radley, he wanted her on his team. She sat herself with a small sigh, and picking up her red pen, clicked it and wrote the date in bold letters on the top of the pad along with his name.

Let’s just say I’m in the market for a new job. Where would that put us today?

Large, solemn gray eyes under her fringe gazed steadily back.

How about we start with your experience of working with antiquarians? He allowed his lips to curve. He did enjoy what he did—not least because it was not the most common of careers.

She tilted her head, and he felt the seriousness of her gaze.

I started out in research seven years ago. My first client was the Royal Society of Antiquaries in London. I stayed with them for four years but then came back to Chicago. She stopped abruptly.

Impressive. No wonder the reputation his PA, Jonathon, had uncovered had been exemplary. The Royal Society of Antiquaries was the biggest archaeological research library in the UK, itself one of the largest holders of ancient artifacts. This day had started strange and was becoming progressively more so.

Why did you return?

Because of a job.

These words she delivered flatly and moved on swiftly to her work experience. What had happened? Failed love affair? He settled into the stiff leather chair in front of her desk and listened as she went through her duties and responsibilities. She was well respected, this much he understood from her carriage.

Yet while watching her, he noted not once throughout her dialogue did her expression diverge from serious. There was no lightening up, perhaps due to being in an interview. Although he doubted she bowed under pressure.

Aware of her coming to a stop, he realized one thing and one thing only. Only she would do.

Great. Welcome to North Antiquaries.

A surprised laugh burst from her, but the corresponding look was anything but amused.

How do you know I want to work for you?

Fair point. I’ll run through our credentials. NA is one of the top employers here in Chicago. The company is top of the Crain’s Chicago Business best companies for employees for the third year running. My offices at the Loop are well maintained, and it is a great building to work in. I value my employees and invest heavily in them. I have only twenty-seven members of staff, but the beauty of keeping it small is we are all on first name terms and often we feel like a family, albeit a large and unwieldy one. What else can I say? He spread his hands out. The staff have an extra two vacation days annually, and I pay above the average.

She didn’t move a muscle as she listened to him. Sounds all right. Tell me what the role entails.

He blew out an exasperated breath, not used to having to sell his company. Generally, my team is more than capable of tracking what is requisitioned. But sometimes an odd and interesting item request comes into the building—and this is where I need an experienced researcher. Some artifacts take weeks or months to track down. I travel and most times would require you to come with me, or you may uncover something that requires following up outside of the internet.

At her quirked eyebrow, he continued. Maybe about four times a year, my clients need me to journey to far-flung places to find ancient artifacts. I won’t lie to you. The trips sometimes take a couple of weeks and it is always useful to have an experienced researcher with me.

Was it his imagination or was there a spark of interest in those cool eyes? She glanced away and picked up her black biro, scrawling something over those yellow pages. Stopping, she fixed him anew with her gray eyes. She was impossible to read.

Why are you recruiting now?

My current researcher is moving with her family to Florida. She has been with me since NA’s inception, and I am sorry to see her go. She leaves in two weeks’ time. It has all been sudden.

Would you want me to work exclusively for you?

She was asking the right questions. Yes. For which I would pay $125,000 annually. Plus all expenses on trips, needless to say. Although you can buy your own postcards. To give her credit, she didn’t bat an eyelid. Knowing the average pay for a worker of her experience would be less than half his amount, he was impressed.

Yet something within him laughed—it wasn’t as if she looked like the type of woman who was interested in money. You could buy yourself a new sports car, save you having to do up an old one.

There—definite reaction. Askance, her gray eyes narrowed on his face, one eyebrow raised.

He smiled, making a conciliatory gesture with his hands. Yet she gave nothing back. Did he really want someone this cold on his team? He ran through his office team and wondered whether she’d fit in. His team was a good one, handpicked personally, and their disparate characters enhanced the atmosphere and got the job done fast. His gut instinct was rarely wrong. But he had gone over and above now and was damned if he was going to beg.

Standing up, he winced as the chair scratched on the linoleum. He took the one step required to get to the door, turning for a last aside before he left. I’ll leave you in peace, Ms. Radley. I’ll give you twenty-four hours to make up your mind. Thank you for your time, and the coffee. He sketched a bow and left.

Flicking out his keys, he unlocked his Audi and settled himself into its quiet interior. Damn. He resisted the urge to punch his steering wheel. He had never come across someone so casual about his company. He was proud of it, having built up the small business his dad had started years ago. Discovering a love of all things ancient at an early age had certainly set him apart from his contemporaries, but this love had focused him throughout university life. And now here he was, the man that most folk wanted to work for. He ruffled his hair.

He needed a shake-up, and he picked up his phone to call his club. Matt, hi, are there any courts free? He listened. Great, I’m on my way. Nothing like a game of squash to run the edge off.

Chapter Two

Ellora stared at the door North had just exited, sure she saw flurries in the air. Releasing a long